Feels Like Drowning
by D Squirrel
Summary: Coming out to his boss about the psychic thing hadn't been on his to do list for today. Warnings: Ummm…cussing, vomiting, more cussing, no slash but if you want to you could consider it pre-slash. If you squint.


Notes: In my continuing quest for a kinder, gentler, less evil Sean Renard I just had to write a One-Shot AU where Nick is not only a Grimm he's also kinda psychic. Also, Hank and Juliette know about Nick's Grimmness but Renard doesn't. Not directly set in my Change of Atmosphere universe but it could be.

Crossposter on AO3.

Warnings: Ummm…cussing, vomiting, more cussing, no slash but if you want to you could consider it pre-slash. If you squint.

Nick woke up feeling overwarm and heavy-limbed, sick and confused. There was something soft beneath him that didn't feel like his bed. Couch maybe. Not _his_ couch; didn't have that one saggy spot right there his hips landed. He drug a too-heavy hand up, tried to find a place solid enough to give some leverage, and pushed.

Oh shit. Shit. Bad idea. Really, really bad idea. He was pretty sure his head exploded and as soon as he could actually form words again he was going to apologize to whoever's couch he was on because that had to be messy.

A big hand closed around his arm, easing him back down. His skin felt hot and swollen and it _hurt_.

"Don't move."

Okay, yeah. He sagged into the couch, more than happy to do just that. He was sweating, hair matted to his scalp, clothes sticking to his skin and he wanted more than anything to just go to sleep. Except he needed to get up now, right now because those people were—

—suffocating in the heat searing down his throat, lodging in his chest where it _burned_. God. He had to get up. Had to move. They were burning, or going to be, he…wasn't certain what time it was or how long he'd been out. Or where he was.

"Nick." The hands were back, one on his forehead, cool and rough. "Stop."

He _knew_ that voice. Squinting his eyes open warily he tried to make out the shadowed shape leaning over him. There wasn't much light and what there was came from the other side of the room. He recognized the room though and remembered trying to end a conversation with Renard and get out the door before…before…. Damn.

It had happened right in front of the Captain too.

"Capt'n?" He coughed, wracking and dry. Fuck. Lungs _felt_ like he'd been sucking smoke.

"Don't move."

"No. No, I need to…." Get off the Captain's couch for starters. Get fire and rescue to that apartment building ASAP. He didn't have a time, hadn't seen a clock, only had a sense of needing to act now, now, _now_.

"I already called it in. Fire department is responding." The other hand landed on his chest, implacable. "Lie back."

"No, I'm gonna—" Get up right now or things were going to get gross.

Renard pulled him upright, bent him over with a hand on the back of his neck. Something pressed against shins and he grabbed with both hands, curling his fingers over the rim of the metal garbage can, dragging it between his knees. Definitely not opening his eyes again, not for this, maybe ever.

Oh, so not good for his head. So very not good. God. Every muscle hurt, exactly like that time he'd been body slammed into a wall by a strung out suspect. Only thing lacking was the stucco burn on his chin. Renard's hand slid down to rest between his shoulder blades, warm and heavy and he thought he'd be embarrassed later when he wasn't, you know, _dying_ but right now it was really comforting. He turned his head to the side to get away from the smell coming out of the can, gulping air in sharp, heaving breaths.

Renard stopped talking on the phone long enough to ask him if he was done.

No, definitely not, no. He hunched over the can again. God, this was worse than the last time. He was shaking and chilled when he finished heaving long after it stopped being productive.

Renard ended his call. "Fire department evacuated the building. They've shut down the gas lines. No one was hurt."

Oh thank God. He sagged back into the couch in relief. Clearing his throat, he coughed a couple times and Renard, bless him, produced a cold bottle of water. Best boss ever. He rinsed his mouth and spit into the garbage.

"Sip it," Renard ordered. He stood and went to the door, taking the can and its accompanying stench with him.

Nick sipped and let his head fall back on the couch. Damn he hurt and he could still smell the smoke, still taste it in the back of his throat. He wanted a hot shower and his own bed and Juliette to fuss over him, but he'd settle for easing back down on the Captain's couch again and not moving for the rest of the week.

Next thing he knew Renard was pulling him to his feet and hauling him towards the door, shouting that he was taking Nick home and would someone please find the Lysol and hose down his couch and Burkhardt's desk before the whole precinct caught the plague.

"Don't have the plague," he protested weakly. "And I can drive." But he was already being bundled into the Captain's big SUV.

"No you can't." Renard leaned over him to lock the seatbelt. "_You_ are going to _sleep_."

Yeah, he was good with that. The way Renard said _sleep_ settled into some place deep inside him dragging weariness and lethargy along for the ride. He dreamed of fire, of heat and pressure crushing him to the floor, of carpet so hot it was _melting_ onto his fingers—and woke coughing on smoke that didn't exist, that he hadn't really smelled, breathed in, suffocated on.

He startled back to awareness with Renard leaning over him.

"Nick? You back with me?"

He was sitting on a bed. His own bed. With no memory of getting there. He knew it was his bed because the book he was halfway through was on the nightstand and his stray sock was poking out from underneath the edge of the frame next to his feet and Juliette's second favorite bra was thrown across the end. He was disoriented and his chest and throat _ached_. And the Captain was unbuttoning his shirt.

"When will Juliette be home?" Renard asked.

Nick couldn't stop staring at the other man undoing the tiny shirt buttons. Renard had large hands and long, clever fingers. He finished the buttons and stripped the shirt off with the kind of ease Nick had only previously associated with people who had small children. "Um, she'll be back on Thursday." His t-shirt was next, shoes and socks.

"I'll find you something to sleep in." Renard said.

Nick wiggled his bare toes against the wood. He'd seen some very strange things in his life (not all of them since becoming a Grimm, but most of them since becoming a cop) but watching Police Chief Sean Renard rummaging through his bureau drawers in search of wayward pj's was downright bizarre.

Renard set the clothing down on the bed, regarding him with amused eyebrows and a quirked mouth. "Are you always this…," Renard paused searching for a word, "…out of it afterwards?"

He blinked. Twice. "What?"

"After you have a vision." He held up a soft gray t-shirt Nick had owned since his freshman year in college, searching for the tag to find the back. "My grandmother was a seer," Renard continued. "I remember being banished from the house as a child because she needed the quiet. For hours afterwards she would be somewhat…disconnected. You however," he aimed an indulgent smile Nick's way, "are leaning more towards loopy."

Well crap. Coming out to his boss about _that_ hadn't been on his to do list today. Guess he'd better save the Grimm thing for next week just to spread out the fun. "I don't…." He had no idea how to finish that. Renard was giving him that look he got that said he would brook no bullshit. Nick had seen that look once or twice, mostly directed at Hank.

Sitting on his heels, Renard didn't even have to look up to meet Nick's eyes. That hardly seemed fair.

"Pants?" Renard said, holding up a pair of pj bottoms.

Dressed and tucked in between the cool, crisp sheets he eased his head onto the pillow with a wince and a long sigh. It felt really good to be still, but past experience told him that if he didn't take something for the headache right now he'd get a couple hours of sleep before the pain got bad enough to wake him.

"There are pills in the bathroom. Medicine cabinet." He shifted restlessly, feeling the tightening in his neck and shoulders.

"For the headache?"

"Yeah, I…." Needed them for days afterwards sometimes just to function. "I need them."

"Not tonight." Renard brushed the hair off his forehead with one big hand and traced a line with his thumb from the hairline down the bridge of his nose. Tingling spread out from the touch, dissolving into gentle warmth that crawled through his skull and eased the pain away.

When he woke again there was still light coming through the window. For a long time he lay still, staring at the square of afternoon sunlight on Juliette's side of the bed and after a while he realized it was strange it didn't hurt his eyes. He felt…not great, but okay. Not like he usually did afterwards, hungover and half dead for at least a couple days.

Warm and relaxed, he considering laying there until he went back to sleep when he heard something thump downstairs. Juliette was at a conference in Seattle. Struggling out of bed he reached for his weapon, hesitating when he found it on top of the nightstand instead of in the drawer where it should be. For a split second his mind was a complete blank and then he remembered yesterday. Crap.

Drawing the gun he checked it over and headed down the stairs, avoiding the creaky spots. Halfway down, he heard a deep, male voice coming from the kitchen. Pausing at the foot of the stairs he listened for a minute, relaxing when he realized he knew who it was. Annnnnd promptly tensed right back up when he realized he knew _who_ it was.

Renard was sitting at his kitchen table, coffee cup in one hand, cell phone pressed to his ear. Seeing Nick hesitating in the doorway he ended the call. "How are you feeling?" The gun Nick was trying to unobtrusively hide behind his back got an amused look.

"Better. Um, sorry." He laid the gun on kitchen table and sat down because, better than usual or not, he was still a little wobbly in the knees. "Sorry," he said again. "I woke up and heard a noise."

Renard gave him a mild look. "No need to apologize." His suit jacket hung over the back of a chair, dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Coffee?" he asked, standing to retrieve a second cup from the cupboard before Nick even answered. He took up a lot of space; Nick had never thought of his kitchen as small until now.

He glanced at the clock on the far wall. A little after four pm. "I didn't realize I had slept so long."

"You were tired," Renard observed, pouring the coffee.

"Usually," he said carefully, "it's much worse." He was watching for a response or he would never have caught the fractional tightening of the broad shoulders under crisp blue cotton. "Although usually it doesn't happen so quickly either." The headache almost always held off a few hours before he was reduced to hiding in his bedroom with the blankets over his head.

"We all have our secrets." Renard added a dash of cream just the way Nick liked it, nudging the refrigerator door closed with a hip. "How long have you been psychic?" he asked and placed the cup in front of Nick.

He hated that word. Juliette had laughed at him when he'd complained it made him sound like one of those 1-800-hoaxsters on late night TV promising to bring messages from the beyond for only $3.95 a minute. "I was seven the first time it happened. I don't remember it." That was a lie; he recalled very clearly the crush of grass under his cheek, remembered screaming and screaming because it hurt so bad he thought he was dying. "I've had them ever since."

"How often?"

"Four or five times a year."

Renard nodded thoughtfully. "A month ago. You disappeared for two hours then claimed you had a migraine and Hank had to drive you home."

"I've gotten pretty good at recognizing when they're coming on." He took a sip of coffee, glad all over again that he'd let Monroe talk him into buying the fancy stuff. "I can usually get to the storage room on the second floor. It, um, has a lock and the door was…." Solid core and built back in the 1800's or something. Practically soundproof.

Resuming his seat, Renard picked up his own cup. "What was it really?"

"Deck collapse at a public golf course out by Heron Lakes." God, it had been…so very bad. Nails and splintered wood, torn flesh and crushed bones. It made him glad he'd never gone into construction.

Renard watched him over his cup for a moment. "I don't recall the case coming across my desk so I assume you resolved it?"

"I called the club, said someone had come in to report possible tampering with the supports of the deck. They checked it out and shut it down before anyone got hurt." There hadn't been tampering just shoddy construction and age. Ended up with the whole structure torn down and rebuilt. "I only see accidents and usually only when there are a large number of people involved." Never the murders that made up his day job.

Renard nodded thoughtfully and finished off his coffee. He rose to rinse the cup and put it in the sink. "I have to get back to the office. Will you be alright alone?"

"I'll be fine." He had questions he'd wanted to ask since he was seven that he thought Renard might know the answer too, but they would have to wait until his brain stopped feeling like someone had made scrambled eggs in it. He felt like he could go back to bed right now and sleep through the rest of the night. "But I want to—"

"Yes." Renard picked up his jacket from the chair, folding it over his arm. He looked down at Nick with an expression that was somewhere between worry and exasperation. "Later."

Nick stood to show him out. "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome. Next time," he paused filling the doorway, "…next time this happens you don't have to use the storage room."

The next day Renard came over and leaned against his desk. "Burkhardt."

"Captain."

A small, leather bound folio was slid onto his desk. "I thought you might find this interesting."

Opening the book he looked the title page, which was in French, but there was an English subtitle beneath it. "Your grandmother's diary?"

"Yes. She recorded many things about…her condition. Some of the words do not translate well so I left them in the original language. Let me know if you need clarification."

"Of course, sir. Thank you." He held the book with careful hands.

Renard smiled at him. "When you've finished that one, I have other books that might interest you." Patting Nick on the shoulder he took himself off to the coffee pot and then back to his office.

"Okay, that wasn't cryptic at all," Hank said. "You think he might know about the _other_ thing too?"

Nick shrugged. "I'm starting to wonder." Very little went on that Renard didn't know about.

"You're going to have to tell him eventually."

"Yeah," he agreed, "I know. I will."

"Uh huh." Hank stood, grabbing the jacket off the back of his chair. "Because you handled it so well with me and Juliette. Come on I'll buy you lunch before you go home."

Nick made a face. Hank and Renard were strictly enforcing the half day rule. He felt _fine_, better than he had ever felt the day after an episode, and he really wanted to know what Renard had done and if he could replicate that because not feeling like he was somewhere between the worse hangover ever and the bird flu for three days would be worth just about anything.

"Fine." Nick shrugged into his coat and tucked the book deep into an inner pocket. "But you're taking me somewhere nice."

END


End file.
